


The Moment

by jazzjo



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:45:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzjo/pseuds/jazzjo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye is the new face in indie and Jemma is the owner of the bakery in the bookstore that she's performing in. They meet, and the singer finds her new song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I saw

Her acoustic guitar was woefully out of tune — the kids she played for every Sunday loved messing with her instruments but their fun always left them a little worse for wear — and she sat with a knee propped up on its amplifier as she tuned it up. 

 

Setting the tuned instrument back into its hard case, Skye reached down and picked up her bass guitar, picking at each of the four thick strings to check their tuning. 

 

She had another half hour before her set would begin properly. Wiping her hands down on her faded jeans — her good pair, comfortable but presentable — she slung her bass across her body and began to absentmindedly play with some riffs and licks. 

 

It was hard to believe that she was playing indoors, with a legitimate booking and payment with her hard case use for actual _storage_ of her guitar rather than a container for the loose change that passersby deemed fit to throw in her general direction. 

 

Heck, the fact that she was performing here because she had finally put an album together and gotten it released was surreal enough that she could barely comprehend what was real anymore. 

 

Her chest heaved shakily as she breathed in the warm air of the store, scents from the bakery portion wafting over. 

 

This bookstore had been where she had first fallen in love with the bass guitar, listening to some artist trying to catch a break. The melancholy rise and fall of the notes, the metallic twang as a note was ripped off and replaced with a shift of a finger. 

 

Her nightmare of a foster home at the time was barely a town over, but she still went to school two blocks away and she knew the owner well enough that she was comfortable here. 

 

Peggy had always run a tight ship, but she had a soft spot for kids with a little too much spunk and a heart big enough to get them through anything. Needless to say, Skye had found a home here before she had found the Coulson household couple of years later, taken under the wing of most of the full-time staff at Shield.

 

Her staff spoke volumes about her penchant for taking in strays, even when she had been retired for a couple of years. 

 

Her niece, Sharon, had taken over since then, though most of the people who had seen Skye grow out of being Mary Sue Poots and into Skye Weiying Coulson still worked there. 

 

The bass in her hands had been bought by the first paycheque she had earned from working shifts in this very store. 

 

The guitar by her feet was a gift, her mother’s old instrument that fit the same small hands they had. It was never a thing that Skye had expected to get pressed into her hands on her thirteenth birthday, the first she spent with them. 

 

The hands that taught self defence, put to work breaking boards and bricks and noses, which had once played the very instrument that she had been gifted after she had given up on ever getting a chance beyond a cot and an expiration date that doubled up as her eighteenth birthday. 

 

Mornings before school they had spent doing tai chi together, her movements jerky and stilted while her mother’s were fluid and graceful. Afternoons she spent in the corner of either her mother’s martial arts studio or behind the counter of the bookstore with Nat, Maria, Nick or one of the others, homework spread out in front of her as she got distracted by everything and everyone. 

 

In the evenings, Phil and Mel sat down with her and taught her guitar and piano. Well, Mel taught them both. Her father was gifted with a very particular brand of enthusiastic tunelessness, Skye had quickly learned. 

 

Her found family would be watching her today — Sharon had joked that they would never be shorthanded if Skye played in their store every day — scattered around the shelves and listening out for the words she had scrawled either here or in her room, for melodies and harmonies they had heard in pieces as she formed them. 

 

Skye was never nervous around them. They were, after all, all parts of the reason she even had this path to go down. No, the sweat on her palms and the thrumming of her heart came from the awareness that the newly opened bakery that Sharon had found to partner with the bookstore had a gorgeous owner. 

 

One Skye would definitely want to make a good first impression on. 

 

Her ponytail, tank top, leather jacket and jeans seemed just not to cut it once she had passed the girl in a button down and cardigan, her hair in a loose braid down her back as tendrils curled around her flour-dusted face. 

 

Steadily she had pulled tray upon tray of steaming baked goods from the oven, expertly shuttling between preparing new trays to keep up with the ever lengthening queue and serving up the freshly baked items as the curly haired cashier called for them in his distinctly Scottish accent. 

 

It would be just Skye’s luck for her to have a boyfriend already. 

 

Skye had wished, in the moment she passed her with her guitar in hand and her bass strapped to her back, that she were an artist rather than a musician. The streak of flour across her cheekbone and the smiling brown eyes, the curve of her lips beneath the white teeth gnawing on them, that entire image was something Skye would have given anything to capture in that moment. 

 

At the very least she had gotten a flash of a genuine beaming smile as she had passed by. 

 

The list of things she would do to see that smile once more was growing longer by the second. 

 

Her damp hands went towards her thighs again, smudging themselves against the cloth of her trousers as she peered across the shelves the layout of which she had long ago had memorised. The baker was kneading a ball of dough, revealing her toned forearms where her sleeves had been folded up precisely to her elbows. 

 

A smack connected with the back of Skye’s head, just under where the elastic held her ponytail together. 

 

Snapping her head around, her eyes lowered and met her mother’s before wincing.

 

“Weiying, stop ogling the poor girl,” Melinda warned, her eyes lit up with mirth that her stern expression failed to belie. 

 

Skye slouched and groaned, leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder as she whined, “But Ma, she’s so dreamy. And I’m here and I can’t do anything!”

 

“If your father saw this he would have an aneurysm,” Her mother intoned, allowing the edge of her lips to quirk up slightly, “So I took it upon myself to have some words with Maria. She’s twenty one, like you, and she likes girls. If you want to know her name you’re going to have to find out for yourself after your set.”

 

“Thanks, Mom, though it’s weird that you’re playing wing woman for your own daughter,” Skye smirked, “Speaking of aneurysms, where’s Dad?”

 

Straightening Skye’s jacket, Melinda brushed a stray strand of hair away from Skye’s eyes as she replied, “He’s nearly here. Banner, your dad and Rogers were stuck in a staff meeting at the school but they’ll be here before your set starts. Five minutes, Weiying, you’re going to be amazing.”

 

“愛你！” Skye exclaimed as she gave her mother a hug. Melinda returned the sentiment, albeit less exuberantly, placing a kiss on her daughter’s forehead before she strode back to the poetry shelf where Victoria was standing, leaning against the bookshelf’s sturdy oak frame. 

 

Her mother had grown up working in this bookstore, apparently. Put her time to better use than getting into fights or staring blankly into space through life while waiting for her grandmother to return home from a job she was never fully aware of.

 

Victoria Hand had been one of those strange friendships that had been struck up in those days which Skye never would be able to understand. Her mother’s bare face, simple ponytail and dark colours just never made sense as something that would go next to Victoria’s pink highlights, heavy eyeliner and bright wardrobe undeterred by dress code. 

 

Even now as she looked at them Skye giggled under her breath as she took in the odd combination. 

 

Sharon and Nat gave her matching thumbs up from their place at the counter, Natasha’s hair flaming red enough to catch Skye’s attention anywhere, while Maria smirked at her each time she passed on one of her shelving rounds around the floor of the bookstore. 

 

Her father stepped briskly through the bookstore with Steve and Bruce in tow, black tie loosened and removed and the top button of his shirt undone. 

 

Turning the volume on her amp up and plugging in her bass, Skye began her set. 

 

Each song was met with moderate applause (her family didn’t count, not when they liked to hoot and holler over the smallest things). Instruments were picked up and changed for others throughout the set, chosen from the extensive array of equipment that seemed almost too much for the small number of people sharing the stage. 

 

Soon Skye turned to the other two people on stage with her and signalled for their closing song, moving away from the keyboard to sling her bass back across her body. 

 

Trip, her percussionist extraordinaire and Sharon’s cousin, and Bobbi, high school bio lab partner (read: life saver; labs were never her thing) turned backup singer and one-woman band tour de force. They both nodded their acknowledgement, a wide grin over Trip’s face and an enigmatic smirk over Bobbi’s, and Trip counted them in with a couple hits of his drumsticks. 

 

The count in was slow, a swing beat that segued into a jazzier tune than the previous few in the set. Skye’s fingers settled with practised ease on the fret board of her bass guitar, hitting just the right notes as the familiar tune began to take shape. 

 

This was the only venue she would ever play this song in. 

 

It was the last song she had written while Peggy had still run the store, having put the music together and set them to words while Peggy ran the front of the store right next to her. 

 

She had never fully understood what she had been writing that day. The words had come and she hadn’t had the heart to stop them as they flowed so smoothly and fit so well with the melody and harmony she had set out. Each chord sat right, warm and steady in her chest, the right kind of heavy. 

 

But today, the song felt like a whole new sort of right. 

 

Each embellishment glistened like a diamond catching the light just right, each slide of her fingers on the fret board fitting in just so with each bow and tremble that emanated from the cello settled between Bobbi’s knees. 

 

Her voice filled the entire store, each word pouring out warmly and seeping through the shelves and leaving no corner of the store untouched or left empty. Her eyes stopped skimming the audience and meeting with her parents or one of her family members from time to time, rather lifting and directing themselves all the way to the other end of the store where a different sort of warmth brewed. 

 

The baker was swaying to the music as she worked, her brown eyes alight with the same smile that graced her lips. 

 

For the briefest of seconds before the music ended, their eyes met before both snapped their heads away swiftly, Skye’s eyes landing on her mother’s knowing gaze as she blushed before ending the song, bowing and presenting the members of her band once more before the applause died down and the shop returned to its usual state.  

 

Later. She would talk to the baker later. 


	2. your smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo, I'm so sorry this took such a long time to post but I've been having such horrendous issues with wifi that it's hard to even get online for a minute nowadays. Hopefully this chapter is alright and I'll try my absolute best to get the next one up ASAP :)

That morning had begun just as any other had, at least since the opening of the bakery. Her morning run led into a walk from her apartment block to Shield with a travel mug of lavender earl grey in her satchel as her hands weaved a plait through her hair. 

 

She had pulled on her favourite soft shirt today, a pale blue oxford shirt tucked under her dark green cardigan. 

 

There was a quietness, a calm that held its own against the ever present drone of white noise that morning traffic brought. Jemma knew better than to take the quiet for granted. After all, Sharon had warned her that a in-house performance would bring bigger crowds likely to stay a little longer than they usually would, and that in itself guaranteed that her day would be anything but slow. 

 

Sharon and her had grown up together on occasion, her family having been close friends with the Carters since the years after the second world war. They’d even speculated as children, as Sharon jokingly called Jemma “English”, that there was more than just friendship there. 

 

When Jemma had come over to live in the States, after having hit one too many brick walls in her research career, it seemed natural that the Carters would welcome her with open arms. 

 

Shield was a blessing in itself. It granted her a reprieve from the blatant sexism she had grown all too weary of in her years in the lab, while still allowing her to occupy her time with something akin to chemistry. Besides, the people who worked at Shield were more like family than friends to the Carters, and it seemed that their hospitality extended to her as well. 

 

Especially in their badgering for her and Sharon both to find someone for themselves. 

 

It was a marginal improvement from them supposing she and Fitz would become an item. He was her best friend, her almost brother, nothing more. She had thought about it, but surmised that they fit better as friends than anything else. 

 

No one had ever really fit, not back in England, nor here in the States. 

 

Each time it had come up Jemma had pulled the corners of her mouth back in the smallest of smiles — the largest she could manage without grimacing, really — and Sharon would mouth apologies alongside her own look of chagrin. They’d nod and wait for the conversation to end, knowing the others meant well all the same. 

 

Didn’t mean either of them had to enjoy it.

 

Peggy was a reprieve from all of it, her visits to the place that held her life’s work always ending in hours long visits to the bakery. Jemma baked her fresh scones each time, setting two down before her with a mug of tea, the three of them talking as Jemma buzzed around the kitchen. 

 

She’d tell them stories, wondrous adventures aside from the Captain America stories they’d all heard all to much of. They’d continued from the tales she’d regaled them with in their childhood, about how she had fought on the front lines during the war and then left to pursue her love of words with the support of her old friend Howard. 

 

His son was still the biggest donor each year to Peggy’s literacy fund. 

 

Now it was mainly stories about Angie, if anything. Peggy would gaze fondly at Jemma’s brown hair, reminiscing about her Angie and the days they had. 

 

Fitz’s chattering as he entered the bakery yanked Jemma’s consciousness back to the present, her focus back on the rhythmic actions of kneading dough. 

 

“Do you ever stop nattering, Fitz?” Jemma threw over her shoulder, reaching up with a knuckle to swipe a phantom wisp of hair away from her cheek, complete with a good-natured laugh. 

 

He quipped right back at her instantly, with ease that belied the familiarity of their banter, “Do you ever stop nagging, Simmons?”

 

“We will be opening in three minutes, Fitz,” She exclaimed, “Get a move on and man the till, will you?”

 

Once they had started their day, there was nary a quiet moment where there was nothing to be done. A couple of regulars had stopped to chat with either of them for a brief moment, though more people were concerned with the poster that declared Skye Coulson would be performing than with the baker and cashier they saw each time they stopped by Shield.

 

The back door of the bookstore led right by the kitchen of the bakery. As Jemma pulled cinnamon buns and chocolate chip scones out of the oven, she faltered a moment and nearly dropped a scalding tray as _she_ walked by. 

 

Jemma was tempted to smack herself in the face with one of the metal trays in her gloved hands. It wasn’t the first time she was seeing _her_ — the woman of the hour, Skye Coulson, who strode into the bookstore like she was coming home — after all, Skye had spent the better part of the past few years hanging around the bookstore, and Jemma had been here more than a few times before starting the bakery as well. 

 

_Control yourself, don’t be daft,_ she reprimanded herself as she shifted two new trays into the vacated slots in the oven, _it’s almost as if you think you have a chance._

 

The muted thrumming of the oven’s dull heat forced a blush onto Jemma’s pale cheeks, her hands only shaking slightly as she pulled the orders that Fitz called from the cashier’s counter from each of the trays before her. 

 

If Sharon saw her like this, she’d never hear the end of it. 

 

Right as Skye passed the edges of her peripheral vision, Jemma managed to pull herself together enough to manage somewhat of a smile — her dorkiest one, she regrettably realised, the one that only appeared when she couldn’t prevent it — and met Skye’s eyes fleetingly. 

 

The edges of her eyes crinkled softly as she smiled back, her eyebrows slightly furrowed. Jemma bit her lip and shook her head lightly, forcing her own attention back to the orders that Fitz was calling out at a speed akin to a bullet train. 

 

She couldn’t quell the burning of her cheeks. It wasn’t as if she was thinking lewd thoughts, or that she felt that sort of attraction to Skye at all. 

 

Better than anyone, she knew that she didn’t have the capacity for that sort of attraction. Hardly, anyway. She just wanted to know Skye better, the kind of attraction that made her want for them to just get that little bit closer. 

 

As she bagged the order for two croissants — Daniele Forrester, nineteen and a student of literature at the nearby university — Jemma kept an ear out for the picking of strings and the bustling noise that signalled Skye’s band setting up. Danny was one of their regulars they’d had since they started at Shield, and she always had kind words for Fitz and a grin for Jemma cast over the counter, with the occasional comment on a book Jemma had recommended to her. 

 

Jemma cracked a smile as she watched Danny hand one of the two pastries over to a person with an undercut and a blue plaid shirt, placing an affectionate kiss on their cheek as her hand met theirs in transit. 

 

With a fond chuckle Jemma nudged Fitz as she passed and pointed the couple out to him, remembering Danny’s excitement as she had enthused about being able to come to the performance with them. 

 

Adena, Jemma thought their name was. 

 

The crowd in the bookstore was gradually gravitating towards the central space set aside for readings and performances like these, surrounding the two teenagers and obscuring Jemma’s view of them. She cast a last glance towards the gathering audience before she set to making a fresh batch of white cheddar rolls, waiting for the set to start with an anticipation she hadn’t felt since she waited for Peggy and Sharon’s answer about the bakery. 

 

The doors to the bookstore swung open swiftly, Mr. Coulson and two other men briskly approaching the stage. The music started with a light rhythm on the drums and a glockenspiel before Skye’s voice found its place in the instrumentation and the lush melodies made Jemma hang on to each word. 

 

Sharon ducked into the kitchen briefly, smirking at Jemma’s dazed enamour and poking her gently just below her ribs. 

 

“You’re so far gone it’s hilarious, English,” Sharon teased, “She plays for your team, y’know.”  


Jemma tsk-ed at her in protest, her hands still steadily kneading at the dough for the rolls as she replied, “And which team may that be?”

 

“Just go talk to her afterwards, Jem,” She placed a hand on Jemma’s shoulder warmly before turning to exit the kitchen and retake her place on the floor of the bookstore, “If she minds the fact that you’re ace, it’s her loss.”

 

Jemma’s bottom lip curved into half a smile, the song playing from the stage moving her as she worked. As the cello drew out the ending note in a tremulous vibrato Jemma lifted her eyes from the tray of peppermint brownies she had extracted from the oven. 

 

Through the gaps between the books and sturdy wood of the shelves their eyes met. Jemma wrenched her gaze away as quickly as she could, busying herself with slicing the brownie in the most efficient and precise manner that she knew how to. 

 

By the time she had slid the heated knife through the brownie for the last time and made to tip the entire batch out onto a tray, for display, footsteps had pattered their way from the bookstore to the corridor leading towards back door by the bakery. 

 

“So,” The voice began, hesitating slightly and hanging on to the one syllable that had been uttered just a moment too long, “You’re the baker everyone’s been telling me about.”

 

“Jemma Simmons,” She replied, her hands stalling in their actions as she turned to face Skye of all people, “I used to see you around when I visited the Carters. Peppermint brownie?”

 

Skye sauntered into the bakery, trying her best to hide the shaking of her knees and ankles with what she thought of as a less awkward swagger, “Does that brownie come with a coffee with you?”

 

“I’ll take a tea, but you can sit down, sure,” Jemma twisted around to grab two plates and mugs, setting a slice of brownie of each plate. She made to make the coffee, but Skye laid a hand over hers and stilled her movement, taking the mugs into her own hands and making their drinks as Fitz grinned and flipped the break sign over, sneaking out of the bakery. 


	3. all the songs

Jemma’s head dipped as she laughed gayly, each sound coming out just slightly breathy in a way that entranced Skye. 

 

Their cups were near empty, and Skye’s brownie had long been polished off. Jemma, on the other hand, had been too busy laughing or grinning at Skye to get more than half of hers into her mouth. Some time between them sitting down next to each other along one side of the large table that occupied half of the bakery’s kitchen space, Jemma’s warm hand had found its way over to Skye’s. 

 

Eyes alight as she finished regaling Jemma with the tale of how she had once scaled the bookshelves in the store and hidden above everyone’s line of sight for the better part of a workday, Skye lifted a hand and smudged away the smear of flour along Jemma’s cheekbone. 

 

Leaning over slightly, Jemma offered Skye the last half of the brownie on her plate, letting out another surprisingly brash laugh when all Skye did was hold her mouth open. 

 

As Skye polished off the last bit of the brownie, Jemma rose to clear the table, placing the used dishes in the sink. 

 

“So,” Skye’s voice came from behind her, a playful lilt in it, “Do you usually let girls into your kitchen or is this a special occasion?”

 

Jemma was well aware of the other girl’s presence directly behind her, feeling the warmth of her presence as acutely as the burn blossoming on her cheeks. 

 

Her hand on the tap of the sink was replaced by the calloused fingers of Skye’s own, the other girl sliding in next to her and washing the dishes quickly. In that moment Jemma’s ears pricked and took notice of the music playing in the store. 

 

Norah Jones was doing nothing to quell the blush on her face. 

 

“I don’t-” Jemma stuttered as she tried to get words out between her chattering teeth, “Uh- I- It’s just you.”

 

All she got in response was Skye’s grin, lips slightly parted. 

 

“I need no soft lights to enchant me, if you’ll only grant me the right,” Skye serenaded goofily, “To hold you ever so tight, and to feel in the night the nearness of you.”

 

Pushing hair out of her face as her lips curved unwittingly into a shaking smile, Jemma ducked her head and tried to hide the redness of her cheeks as Skye’s eyes widened. 

 

“Oh crap,” She panicked frantically, “That wasn’t too much was it; I tend to be too much sometimes I’m really sorry you’re really cute and I really like you please don’t hate me!”

 

Jemma’s had snapped up at the outburst, failing valiantly in her attempt to stop the guffaw that bubbled up as she took in Skye’s expression. She turned to face the panicking girl, placing one hand on Skye’s shoulder and squeezing lightly. 

 

“Come on Skye, don’t be daft,” Jemma began, before an obnoxiously loud voice cut in from the general direction of the counter and interrupted the rest of her sentence.

 

A thick hand smacked the counter first, startling Skye. She jumped in a significant enough way for Jemma to realise it, her eyes farting over to the counter with fire behind them before the voice even fully cut into her words. 

 

“Hey sexy, why’re you spending time with this dork when you could be out here with someone like me?” He smirked as he leaned against the counter, toying with the notepad that Fitz kept at the counter for longer orders. 

 

The man who spoke was tall, taller than them both by far and much stronger. Jemma could feel every muscle in Skye’s shoulder tensing up beneath her hand, and by proxy she could tell that Skye was growing more uncomfortable by the second. 

 

With each word that fell from his — Grant Ward, he had declared rather proudly, as if either of them was meant to recognise him from his name alone — lips, Skye’s anger turned into a deep seated discomfort that had her curling in on herself. 

 

Jemma place her other hand gently on the curve of Skye’s face, her eyes imploring Skye’s to meet her gaze as she turned Skye away from the imposing presence in the periphery of their vision. 

 

“Do you know him?” Jemma probed gently.

 

Vehemently Skye shook her head, before pausing a moment and nodding hesitantly, “He’s not supposed to be here. There’s a restraining order but he has enough connections and money to make it mean damn near nothing.”

 

Guiding Skye back to the chairs they had previously been seated on, Jemma poured a mug of warm milk from the espresso machine and added honey to it, trying her best to keep Skye’s attention on her by asking various questions about her while ignoring the display being put on by the man who refused to leave them alone. 

 

At a point — probably around the time when Jemma set the mug in front of Skye and pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her head — he had gone from propositioning Skye to heckling Jemma, and Jemma could tell that the anger was building back up in Skye. 

 

Heckling turned to threats — of the obscene, vile sort, to the both of them — and that was when Jemma could not ignore it anymore. 

 

Silent, hot tears were rolling down Skye’s face and there were deep crescent creases in Jemma’s palms from where her short nails had been digging into the flesh. 

 

Jemma shot a quick text off to Sharon to get either of Skye’s parents to the bakery as soon as possible, making the conscious effort to keep her body inclined towards Skye protectively while keeping a close eye on Ward. 

 

Honestly, Jemma didn’t need an explanation for Skye’s reaction. All she knew was that she was in distress over someone who had obviously been bothering her significantly enough for her to even file a restraining order. 

 

There was something about seeing Skye’s frame hunched over, one hand cupping her neck and the other pressed to her forehead, her hair splayed into a curtain that obscured her face from Jemma’s vision. 

 

There was something about the fact that Jemma knew all too well, even in spite of the short time they had known each other, that Skye’s expression was no doubt one of great distress, her lips pressed white and her eyebrows knitted together. 

 

Her still lightly flour dusted hands reached to smooth out the wrinkles that were no doubt there, but she stopped them before they reached into Skye’s personal space. 

 

The last thing she needed was to startle Skye at this point, and for all her feelings for the girl were worth, she had not known Skye nearly long enough to know how to deal with this matter. 

 

Jemma Simmons was never the confrontational sort. 

 

She bit her anger back whenever she had been teased, ever since she had been a kid who had enjoyed encyclopaedias instead of cartoons, and spouted characteristics of the elements of the periodic table instead of comic book lore. Her glasses were worn with nothing but quiet defiance when bullies took it upon themselves to use them against her. 

 

Fact was that Jemma Simmons avoided conflict as much as she could even when it hurt her. 

 

And yet, in spite of all of that, the most defining trait that Jemma had was the fact that she cared more for others than she did for herself. She would throw herself on a grenade if it meant the people around her would be safe. 

 

And that was how she found herself pacing as silently as she could while Skye silently sat and Ward continued ranting at them, until Melinda May finally stepped through the doors and held her daughter as she shook. 

 

Jemma could bite back anger and humiliation when she herself was threatened, but not if it meant that someone she cared about was in danger. 

 

She had to admit that she cared about Skye, even if they had just met. 

 

Acknowledging that, better than anyone, Melinda would be able to ensure that Skye was alright after the encounter, Jemma stalked towards the counter where meaningless words that packed a hell of a punch were still be tossed at them carelessly. 

 

Setting one hand primly on the counter, Jemma swallowed the lump in her throat and stared Grant Ward straight in the eye as she spoke with an air of deathly calm. 

 

“Now, Ward, you listen to me and you listen well,” Her voice barely modulated higher or lower throughout her dressing him down, set in a harsh and eerily steady monotone, “If you ever harass her again, the flouting of the retraining order will be the very least of your concerns. Don’t let the façade of the bakery lull you into a false sense of security — I have PhDs in fields most people cannot even pronounce, and more than one of them will help me choreograph your demise and disposal in such a way that it would seem like you had never existed at all.”

 

Scoffing at his expression of outrage, Jemma attempted to mask her growing shakiness with a harsher bite in her next statement. 

 

“If I ever see you again,” She warned in a tone of deadly seriousness, eyes narrowed as both hands found their way onto the table to allow her to face him squarely, “I’ll kill you.”

 

As he stormed away, muttering slightly above his breath about a ‘fucking nosy brit bitch’, Jemma finally allowed herself to slump against the counter, using one hand to absently wave the concerned members of the bookstore staff off before she walked back over to Skye and Melinda. 

 

“Thank you,” Melinda murmured softly, her hands still rubbing steady circles around on Skye’s back. 

 

Jemma allowed herself to give the older woman a small smile, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes with one hand as her voice broke when she spoke again, “I did what I should have. What I wanted and needed to do.”

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Skye mumbled as her hands curved around the mug that Jemma had set in front of her before she had run her mouth at Ward. 

 

“Even so, the fact still stands that he was an arse and I couldn’t stand for him treating you like that,” Jemma stated, matter of fact but comforting all the same, “You deserve to be treated so much better than he has the capacity to even consider.”

 

Melinda rose, helping Skye up in the process of doing so. As they passed Jemma on their way out, Skye released her mother’s hand and allowed herself to be wrapped in Jemma’s arms. 

 

“What do you say about a real date?” She ventured, her teeth worrying her bottom lip between phrases, “The two of us, without any interruptions by Neanderthals?”

 

“I would love to, Skye.”


End file.
